


By Your Side

by Raufnir



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst, Combat, Eventual Smut, Fighting, Fluff, Grief, M/M, Mentions of Slavery, Past losses, Slow Burn, Teen for language, Violence, a Dalish elf trying to find his place in all this, not quite enemies to friends but not far off, rating will go up when the smutty chapters arrive
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-17
Updated: 2018-08-25
Packaged: 2019-06-28 17:58:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 18,749
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15712218
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Raufnir/pseuds/Raufnir
Summary: It's understandable that with his past, the young Dalish elf Kaelas despises Dorian and everything he stands for on sight, but as Dorian begins to prove himself, Kaelas finds his opinions changing, and realises that he's slowly falling for the Tevinter mage. As he is crowned first Herald and then Inquisitor, Kaelas struggles to reconcile his responsibilities with his desires. And all the while, Dorian is there by his side. And where is Kaelas when Dorian needs him? Well...*ABOUT TO UNDERGO A COMPLETE OVERHAUL*





	1. First Impressions

**Author's Note:**

> My first foray into Dragon Age: Inquisition after playing the game and falling so hard for Dorian and my elf Kaelas, it's untrue. I've got four and a half chapters (some 10,700+ words) written so far. The tags warn for past losses, but there's nothing specific yet, and I'll put a specific warning up in the notes before we get to that chapter, a long way down the line I think. 
> 
> I hope you enjoy my take on Lavellan and Dorian!

Lavellan drew up short as he watched the mage singlehandedly finish off the last of the demons. Aftershocks of colossal amounts of magic crackled in the air but he could sense that the other man was out of mana. He was also battering the living crap out of a shade with his staff in a way that told the elf he was as good at melee combat as he was with magic. Breathing hard, the mage spun around with the grace of a prowling cat and the demon disintegrated in a spatter of green mist.

“Good! You’re finally here,” he cooed, recovering his breath almost instantly as he turned. He was fit too then.

At the sound of his voice and one look at his face, Lavellan’s stomach dropped and an instant and visceral panic rose like bile up his throat. For a moment he was back in the woods, slavers’ voices closing in on him, those accents, that fear, insults, “pair of knife-ears,” panic, desperate fighting, loss, grief… He closed his blue-grey eyes and drew a deep breath, letting it go before opening them again.

Before him stood a Tevinter mage; that much was clear from his rich, dark skin and black hair – somehow still immaculately coiffed after a fight that would have had his own, long red hair all over the place. Tevinter was a country that the Dalish elf had nothing but deep disgust and hatred for, and there was something so gods-damned _entitled_ about the set of this one’s silver eyes and the quirk of his full lips. And that ridiculous moustache.

“Help me close this, would you?” he asked.

Lavellan didn’t have time to linger long on the flare of bilious hatred that had suddenly billowed up to fill his entire chest because the rift in the centre of the room pulsed once again and another wave of demons burst through it. The ensuing fight was desperate, though Lavellan managed to disrupt the rift long enough to weaken the demons and give them a chance.

Cassandra was almost eviscerated by the claws of a shade, and Lavellan found himself dizzyingly low on mana after a rather spectacular display of chain lightning that he sent arcing through the chantry to stop the shade in its tracks. Cass crawled backwards and barely managed to rip the cork from a potion bottle before the paralyzed demon broke free of Lavellan’s cage of lightning.

Summoning the last of his reserves, Lavellan whirled the staff and cast a glowing red glyph at the base of the shade’s form. It would have been comical to watch the realisation of the demon’s own impending destruction dawning on its face if he hadn’t been so gods-damned tired. The glyph exploded, and the creature threw up its arms in agony. A second later, it exploded and Lavellan saw Dorian brushing a spot of ichor off his robes from nearby. _Dirt on your precious slave-woven silks? Good,_ he smiled.

Lavellan turned away from the self-centred Tevinter mage and raised his left hand towards the rift. He had more important things to focus on than Tevinter nobles, even uncommonly pretty ones.

The energy in the scar on his left palm had been crackling and flaring all the while the fight had raged, but now that the demons had been stopped and he could concentrate on the rift, the pain built until it was all he could do to keep his eyes from watering. He turned his back on the others and forged the connection between the mark on his hand and the tear in reality in front of him. Liquid green fire shot out from the rupture and a cry tore from his lips before he could stop it. The process he used to close it wasn’t dissimilar to Spirit magic, though it wasn’t really the same and he still had almost no idea what he was doing. _Story of my life_ , he thought bitterly as the tension mounted and he felt the rift quiver before it snapped shut.

The rift closed with a deafening crack and he staggered, fighting the pain as his whole arm tingled and burned and finally went quiet. Composed once more, he turned back to look at the battered and ichor-stained group behind him, smiling at Solas and Cass, nodding at Blackwall, and then finally turning to stare down the mage.

The Tevinter mage looked the others up and down before letting his cool, grey eyes settle on the elf once more. “Fascinating,” he said. “How does that work, exactly?” he asked, genuine curiosity lacing his warm baritone voice. He tilted his head to one side in a manner that was surprisingly disarming, and Lavellan found himself almost warming to him. Until the mage snickered and said, “You don’t even know, do you? You just wiggle your fingers, and _boom_! Rift closes.”

He ground his teeth and snarled. “Who are you?” he snapped.

“Ah, getting ahead of myself again, I see,” he said, adopting a frankly ridiculous pose as he clearly prepared to do some melodramatic courtly bow. It was clear that the gesture was a complete parody of polite society though and Lavellan found himself really beginning to dislike the man and his affectations. “Dorian of House Pavus, most recently of Minrathous. How do you do?”

Before Lavellan could respond, Cassandra cut in flatly, “Another Tevinter. Be cautious with this one.”

“Like I need telling twice,” he growled under his breath at her, and she snorted.

“Suspicious friends you have here,” chimed the mage, looking partly offended and partly amused. “Magister Alexius was once my mentor, so my assistance should be valuable – as I’m sure you can imagine.”

What Dorian went on to explain, about disrupting time and the world unravelling, did absolutely nothing to endear Lavellan to him. “Why should I believe any of this?” he snapped.

Dorian scowled and his voice dropped dangerously, his nose crinkling in a snarl that reminded Lavellan of a threatened wolf. “I know what I’m talking about,” he said, voice deep and dangerous. “I helped develop this magic.”

“Fucking Tevinters,” Lavellan hissed under his breath. “Of course you did,” he said, loud enough for Dorian to hear this time.

“When I was still his apprentice, it was pure theory. Alexius could never get it to work,” Dorian went on.

Alexius’ son joined them a few minutes later, looking tired and troubled, but Lavellan was surprised to see how the Tevinter mage softened in his company. He noticed the little shifts about the man’s eyes, the fond crinkle, the tiny, private smile, the worry in his eyes. Did Dorian know how expressive his eyes were? How much they gave away?

Dorian had melted away not long after Felix had appeared to explain more about the Venatori, and Lavellan and the others had split, heading back to Haven to discuss it further with the other leaders. But the face of the Tevinter mage lingered in his mind far longer than he was prepared to admit that he was comfortable with.

Arrogant, attractive, and only too aware of his own power and position, the man had rubbed Lavellan up the wrong way almost instantly, but there had been something in those silver eyes of his. Like moonlight on the still surface of very deep pools, they spoke of a hidden depth of character.

Lavellan sighed, sitting cross-legged and barefooted on the floor beside his simple bed in his simple hut, not far from the walls of Haven. Snow flurried through the open door and the clang and ring of steel on steel sounded from the practice yard. He had so much to learn. He had come so far from the little Dalish community, had already learned so much so quickly, and yet he felt lost, unprepared, and about as far from ready to face what was coming as it was possible to be.

He also felt more alone than he had ever felt in his life.

 


	2. With Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The mess with Alexius and the pair travel forward in time. Dorian proves himself to be honourable, and Kaelas proves he's not just some backwater hedge mage playing at palour tricks. Dorian still isn't accepted in Haven though, but Kaelas reaches out...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A longer second chapter for you so that you can get to know Kaelas a bit better. Hope you're enjoying the ride so far!

“Seize them, Venatori! The Elder One demands this man’s life!”

And yet the madman’s command was met with a slashing of throats and a breaking of necks. Panic flared in Alexius’ eyes when he saw that the trap had been turned on him, and Lavellan heard Dorian hum softly in private satisfaction beside him.

“Your men are dead, Alexius,” Lavellan said calmly, his voice echoing in the hall.

Alexius rounded on him, snarling and frothing like a rabid mabari fighting dog as he stalked towards their party. “You… are a _mistake_!” he spat. “You never should have existed!”

Before the elf could react, green magic sparked to life in Alexius’ right hand and an amulet Lavellan hadn’t noticed suddenly floated up into the space above the gauntlet.

Dorian clearly understood far more in that moment than the Dalish elf did, because he put himself between Lavellan and Alexius in a heartbeat. “No!” he yelled, sounding genuinely afraid, and hurled a vicious counterattack at Alexius with his staff even as the magister prepared to launch his own attack. Golden light slashed briefly across the magister’s torso and Alexius staggered, clutching his forehead.

The attack that Alexius had been preparing went wild, and a swirling green vortex opened up right beside the two of them, sucking them into utter darkness. An instant later, Lavellan dropped into freezing, waist-deep water. He coughed and spluttered and pushed his long, dark red hair back out of his eyes, desperately trying to make sense of what was happening. A wave of panic shot through him as two guards wearing full face-plates on their helmets appeared seemingly out of nowhere, cursing and drawing weapons.

What the hell had happened? Where the hell was he?

Water sloshed around him as he staggered to his feet and drew his staff off his back. A figure – Dorian, he realised with a strange rush of relief – was doing the same beside him, and the two squared off, adopting similar, mirrored, fighting stances, staffs braced, magic crackling between them.

They fought in perfect synchrony as if they’d been training together their whole lives, with Dorian launching barrage after barrage of fireballs at them with stunning precision, and Lavellan using his preferred lightning attacks. He controlled the charge in the air, careful to ensure that he didn’t electrocute the two of them either, given all the water, and Dorian seemed impressed when the two guards fell and disappeared beneath the broiling water. All the Tevinter mage offered him, however, was a single quirked eyebrow.

Breathing hard, Lavellan looked around in stunned awe. The dungeon was illuminated by gigantic red crystals, glowing ominously. It looked like something from a nightmare.

“Displacement,” Dorian mused aloud in the aftermath of the fight. “Interesting. It’s probably not what Alexius intended. The rift must have moved us… to what? The closest confluence of arcane energy?” he asked, eyeing the pulsing red lyrium.

The Tevinter mage paced about, examining their surroundings with an oddly detached, academic curiosity, given the gravity of their situation and the unmentionable filth that washed around their legs. The enthusiasm of his ensuing epiphany was almost laughable, his sculpted eyebrows dancing high with glee as he realised they’d been displaced in _time_ , not location. He seemed to have forgotten that he was up to his waist in foul dungeon water entirely, and Lavellan actually allowed himself a grim chuckle at the sight of a Tevinter nobleman wading through vile effluent, happy as a duck on a village pond for a moment.

His elation didn’t last long though, fizzling out like a wet Saturnalia firework when they found the first survivor. Discovering Lavellan’s friends and comrades was harrowing for both the elf and the Tevinter.

Lavellan let out a string of elven curses on finding Fiona, turning away from the sight of her body, sealed in a living tomb of lyrium. Once they’d learned everything they could from her, he’d turned from her cell and emptied the contents of his stomach onto the floor.

Retching and spitting, he coughed and wiped the back of his hand over his lips, his breathing ragged. “Gods,” he said. “Your _mentor_ did this?” his eyes narrowed and he hissed, “Is this what you Tevinter mages are like?”

“Herald, I must implore you not to judge my people by the actions of one man – my _former_ mentor – and his posse of fanatics…” There was a real, deep, anger in his eyes. “Please,” he implored in a ragged, rough voice, “I want to stop these atrocities as much as you do. Perhaps more.”

“Come on,” Lavellan snarled. “Put your money where that pretty mouth of yours is and lets un-fuck this mess.”

Dorian’s lips hitched upwards into a little amused smirk, but the elf had turned away and stormed off in search of other parts of the dungeon before he could see any more.

It only got more harrowing.

He knew it wasn’t real. He knew he was going to fight harder than he had ever fought for anything to prevent these good people from falling to this awful fate. The dull red gleam of their eyes, their strange voices, their despondency were all things that tore at his heart, though perhaps none of that was as awful as Leliana’s haggard, tortured face and grim determination. Gods, that woman was tough.

In the end, Dorian had actually had to drag Lavellan through the rift he’d created with Alexius amulet, tears streaming down the elf’s face as Leliana succumbed to the onslaught. Out of arrows, she had resorted to bashing them in the face with the bladed tips of her bow. Lavellan had rushed towards her, horrified as she was inevitably overcome and dragged backwards by them. “Leliana,” he whispered, tears pouring freely down his cheeks. “No…”

“You move, and we all die!” Dorian practically screamed, grabbing his wrist. He fixed him with a look that said so much more than that pretty mouth of his ever did. “This isn’t real,” he whispered. “Yet. Step through the rift and fight for a different tomorrow.”

Dorian shepherded him through the rift, though the elf was numb with shock and grief. He’d seen some things in his short time as the so-called Herald of Andraste, but nothing like this had ever featured in his worst nightmares. He didn’t even realise that they’d stepped back into the present until he saw Alexius standing there looking like he’d seen Felix’s own revenant or something come back to haunt him.

Seeing that Lavellan was mute with shock upon their miraculous return, Dorian stepped in, his face a perfect mask of grim satisfaction. “You’ll have to do better than that,” he smiled casually, watching Alexius drop to his knees.

Rage suddenly boiled up white hot in Lavellan’s veins and he paced forwards. “You failed, Alexius. How forgiving is your Elder One?”

He supposed it was touching in a perverse way that Alexius had done all this, risked the entire world, to stop his son from dying. Lavellan wasn’t immune to that, but he couldn’t forgive him either. Not for what he had done – or would do, time was such a complicated construct – to the people whom Lavellan had come to care for.

The elf didn’t remember much of the following events. He was still too numb from the things he had witnessed. He withdrew into himself, becoming even quieter than he normally was, only putting in suggestions when directly addressed, responding like an automaton, and excusing himself as soon as he was able.

The ensuing argument back at Haven gave Lavellan a monstrous headache, but he could have kissed Cassandra, his utter lack of attraction to women be damned, for her interruption and support. Ever fair, ever willing to give him a chance, she put an end to the argument and just as he was about to thank her, a tall figure stepped from the shadows.

“The voice of pragmatism speaks! And there I was just starting to enjoy the circular arguments…” Dorian said, and the elf peered around Cassandra’s shoulder in disbelief.

He was wearing something that more closely resembled armour now instead of his fanciful silken mage robes from before, though – predictably – the practicality of the outfit had made one or two concessions in favour of a little flare of fashion. Lavellan took in the sight of his surprisingly toned and muscular shoulder, revealed on one side by the garments. Dorian lounged against a pillar in the Haven’s great hall, looking like he owned the hall and the surrounding countryside. His smooth, dark skin was utterly unblemished, and the sight of his casual elegance and undeniably attractive physique made Lavellan’s mouth go unexpectedly dry.

Cassandra rolled her eyes and turned to give the mage a flat stare. “Closing the Breach is all that matters,” she said.

Cullen urged them away to the privacy of the war room, but before they left, Lavellan got his second surprise when he found that Dorian was staying with the Inquisition. His voice actually caught in his throat as he asked him that directly, and Dorian chuckled.

“Oh, didn’t I mention? The South is so charming and rustic. I adore it to little pieces.”

Lavellan scoffed. “Stay if you must, but you’ll be watched,” he said. He wasn’t prepared to let this Tevinter mage run loose and free after what he already knew first hand about ‘Vints’, and his opinion of Dorian’s countrymen had plummeted still further after the debacle with the Venatori. Where this individual stood was up for debate though, he supposed.

“Watch away,” Dorian smiled. “I have nothing to hide, and evidently plenty to prove.”

 _That you do_ , Lavellan thought.

Dorian was one of the mages who joined them in sealing the Breach. Before they left, however, Lavellan made sure to work a little with him, as well as a number of the other refugee mages, learning more about magic from other schools, exchanging techniques, and as wary as all the other leaders were of this new regiment of magic users, he was grateful for their presence. Yes, there was the constant threat of corruption, but Lavellan had never been around so many mages in his life. It was thrilling.

Without Templars to ‘regulate’ magical activity among them, the Dalish kept magic users to a minimum in the clans, asking new mages to leave once they were old enough, to find a new clan to serve. He had been the only elf capable of wielding magic in his clan other than his Keeper, and had learned from her and from the writings of previous mages written down in her records. He had gone from that relative isolation, via the disastrous peace conclave, to this in a matter of months.

The mages he met while at Haven were all of them impressed with his skills, and as keen to learn from him as he was from them.

On the whole, though, Dorian kept his distance from everyone, watching from the side-lines, face inscrutable. Lavellan knew he was ostracised here, which, despite everything he knew about Tevinter and its treatment of elvish slaves and the lower classes, he knew wasn’t right. Dorian had fought beside him for a tomorrow that didn’t involve red eyes and chained minds. Dorian had risked his life, fought back against the man he had clearly once admired, helped to capture the father of a man who was clearly a dear friend to him, if not more. And yet here he was spat upon – literally – and ignored, insulted and ostracised. Part of Lavellan wanted to let it continue, to let him know what it felt like to have people toss insults at you like bruised fruit. How many times had he heard ‘knife-ear’ and the like? Even as Herald, even as their supposed saviour? _Let someone else know what it feels like_ , he snarled.

And yet there was something else about Dorian that made him pause.

There was a depth to his eyes that drew Lavellan’s own gaze in and threatened to drown him in the emotion he kept sealed away behind the steal vault doors of his grey irises. Lavellan had been there when Harritt had spat at him, and he’d seen the cold, almost resigned way Dorian had simply nodded and walked away. “ _Don’t be such a fucking hypocrite_ ,” he’d scolded himself in a hissed whisper as he had watched Dorian go, his shoulders squared, his back straight, his head held high. Guilt twisted in the elf’s stomach like a knife, and he vowed to treat him better in future.

One afternoon, about a week before they decided to make their move on the breach, Lavellan looked up from a discussion with another elven mage about their studies on affect of ambient temperature on the efficacy of fire spells, and caught sight of Dorian sitting on a supply crate, a small bottle of wine in his hand, though it was barely past two in the afternoon. He had one knee bent, foot up on the top of the crate while his left leg dangled down, the very picture of nonchalance, but Lavellan again caught something in the set of his brows and the way his shoulders hunched. He’d seen that before, and recognised the aching loneliness in the man’s posture.

Excusing himself politely from the elf’s company, he rose and padded silently over the snow in his soft boots towards the Tevinter mage. Dorian looked up as Lavellan approached and a sour kind of smile graced his beautiful face. “Taking pity on me, Herald?” he said, a slight slur to his words. “Come to gloat at how no one can stand to be anywhere near an evil Tevinter mage whose own countrymen almost enslaved all humanity and broke the world?”

“Hardly,” Lavellan smiled gently. “And I think it’s you who’s avoiding the rest of us as well. What are you drinking?” he asked, nodding at the bottle.

“Oh this?” he said, ignoring Lavellan’s comment about his self-imposed solitude. “Nothing special. But it’s the only thing in this whole Maker-forsaken place that doesn’t taste of goat piss.”

“Move over,” Lavellan chuckled, eying the space next to Dorian. “And let me have a sip.”

“Sharing a bottle with me? Careful you don’t catch something,” Dorian quipped as he shuffled over, crossing his legs in an elegant gesture that made the elf’s ears flush pink for a moment.

“Stop it,” Lavellan said quietly. “You don’t need to be like that.” He took the proffered bottle and drank from it. It was passable, but nothing like the sweet, summer strawberry wines his people brewed, or the plum brandies and cranberry liqueurs that could set your throat on fire and numb your heartbeat in your ears. “You’re right,” he said. “I think you should write the tasting notes for this: ‘marginally better than goat piss’.”

“I didn’t know the Herald had a taste for wine,” he said, leaning back a little on one hand and eyeing him. “Maybe we _do_ have something in common after all.”

Lavellan looked askance at Dorian, his long, red hair fluttering loose in the breeze that whipped around the promontory on which Haven was built. He caught the way Dorian’s pupils soared wide and the way he swallowed thickly before looking away from the elf. _Interesting_. “I think we have more than _that_ in common,” he said eventually, passing the bottle back to him. “Perhaps you’d like to train with me tomorrow?”

Dorian spluttered slightly, halfway through taking a swig from the bottle.

“I know,” Lavellan said, his own grey eyes twinkling mischievously, “How could the very finest of the Tevinter Imperium possibly have anything to teach a savage like me, a mere dumb Dalish hedge mage…?”

“Perhaps I’ll surprise you, Herald,” Dorian laughed, and for the very first time, he saw straight past the mage’s prickly defences of layered sarcasm and arrogance. Perhaps the man was worth a second chance after all.

Lavellan stood up and sighed. “You already have, Dorian,” he said over his shoulder. “And my friends call me Kaelas.”


	3. A Taste of Things to Come

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The fight at Haven begins. Dorian stands beside the 'Herald', and Kaelas learns the staggering truth of his mark before sacrificing himself to save the Inquisition.

Closing the breach took much more out of Kaelas than he’d have liked to admit, though the combined power of the mages gathered behind him under Solas’ direction was undeniably intoxicating. He could feel the connection to each of them, feel the individual and distinctive tang of their magic as it coursed through him, shielding him and strengthening him.

He felt Dorian’s too. It was dark and somehow sad, and it left a bittersweet taste on his tongue like dark Orlesian cocoa. He remembered it distinctly from when they’d shared their magic in a combined ritual a few days before. The purpose of it had been to get Kaelas more comfortable with channelling other people’s magic, something he and his Keeper had never done. It had been excellent preparation for sealing the Breach, and he was mightily glad they’d done it, because the first time Kaelas had tried it he’d freaked out and rejected it, his mark had flared up, and he’d gone down in a howl of pain that had brought Cassandra barrelling from a nearby tent and half of Cullen’s forces had surrounded Dorian, thinking he’d attacked Kaelas.

And yet all it had taken was a wheezed command from Kaelas, kneeling in the mud of the training yard, for them all to stand down and release Dorian. The Tevinter mage bore it with good grace, making light of it and winking as he said, “If you wanted to get your hands on me, boys, all you had to do was ask nicely…” at which one of the soldiers snorted openly with amusement. Dorian had dusted his clothes off and held out a hand to Kaelas, hauling the slender elf to his feet.

Kaelas had been struck then by how smooth and warm Dorian’s palm was, despite the winter chill. It was the hand of a nobleman for sure. It had never seen a day’s manual labour in its life, and if Kaelas hadn’t known Dorian could use his staff as a weapon in its own right, he’d never have thought he was capable of fighting at all. But Dorian had many hidden depths, Kaelas was just beginning to discover: outwardly crass and flippant, but deeply intuitive and sensitive beneath all that.

The two of them had tried the rite again and again that day until the elf was comfortable wielding Dorian’s power as well as his own, and then finally in return, he’d let Dorian have a taste of elvish magic, which had apparently made Dorian’s head spin like he’d drunk summer wine. He’d only done it once. Dorian had excused himself almost immediately afterward, stumbling back towards the hut he had been assigned, which had left Kaelas feeling a little hurt and confused to say the least.

Now as Kaelas stood with his left hand raised towards the Breach, the power of a hundred of some of the best mages in all Thedas raging through him, guided and aided by Solas, he focused on nothing but sealing it off.

It was agony. Time and place vanished. Memories from the past flashed across his mind, the losses raw and painful as they had been the instant he’d experienced them all for the first time, and as he somehow knitted the rift in reality back together, tears streamed down his face, running down the channel of the deep scar on his right cheek.

The resulting explosion when he managed to wrestle it into submission knocked everyone off their feet and sent him to the ground in a roiling mass of crackling, green energy, and the Breach evaporated with a crack like thunder that left his ears ringing. His whole body hurt, every nerve on fire, but in a few heartbeats Cassandra was at his side, hauling him to his feet.

“You did it,” she breathed in awe, steadying him as the roar from the exultant mages rushed in to replace the warping rumble of the Breach in his ears.

The journey back to Haven passed in a blur. The mages were triumphant, full of their own importance in the event, but Kaelas was silent and dizzy, barely able to ride the horse without slipping out of the saddle.

Dorian rode alone behind him, but he could feel the Tevinter mage’s magic in him still, like the taste of a kiss left behind mere moments after it had happened. He couldn’t shake Dorian from his mind, despite knowing what he was and all he represented. It was infuriating. He should be celebrating, and all he could think about was a pair of bright, grey eyes in a beautiful dark-skinned face, and the way that rich voice sounded when he laughed – _truly_ laughed, not some sarcastic chuckling reserved for those he held in contempt or as an attempt to deflect anything remotely personal.

It was as the celebrations were in full swing, with music and dancing and laughter, and alcohol flowing, that Kaelas stood alone and largely recovered on the steps of the Haven chantry, one foot braced against an old supply crate, just watching it all. His eyes roved from one happy group to another, and he smiled, remembering dances with his clan, the camaraderie, the friendship, the closeness, the laughter, the music. Since all this with the Fade and the mark and becoming Herald of some deity he didn’t believe in, he’d become so isolated. He ached for closeness, and his heart clenched at the losses he’d suffered.

Footsteps behind him made his long, tapering ears twitch briefly, and he turned to see Cassandra approaching, a softer expression on her usually stern face. “Solas confirms the heavens are scarred but calm,” she said without preamble. “The Breach is sealed.”

Kaelas brushed off her praise, though he was grateful for her support, and had barely allowed himself a little smile when the bells sounded and the soldiers began running for the gates. The citizens of Haven began to scream and churn like panicked cattle in a corral, and from behind him Dorian stepped out into the night and murmured, “Never a dull moment for Southerners, is there?” before following Cassandra and Lavellan towards the gates.

“One watchguard reporting,” Cullen growled to the group gathering there, speaking in short sentences like the messages that Leliana’s carrier ravens bore. “It’s a massive force. The bulk over the mountain.” He was ashen-faced, and Kaelas could taste the fear on the air.

“Under what banner?” Josephine asked, Leliana appearing at her shoulder a moment later, silent and wary as the shadow of a cat at dusk.

“None,” Cullen said.

“None?” Josephine barked, astonished.

Before anyone could react, the huge, wooden gates rattled and the voice of a young man begged, “I can’t come in unless you open!”

Kaelas heard the desperation in his voice and darted unthinkingly to let him in, a guard helping him, both of them ignoring the warning from Cullen.

A colossal figure in armour crumpled and from the shadow of the warrior’s falling body stepped a skinny boy in dirty green clothes, hiding his face under a bizarre, broad-brimmed hat. “I’m Cole. I came to warn you. To help.” He shuffled his feet and rang his hands. “People are coming to hurt you. You probably already know,” he added, tilting his head at the clanging alarm bells and momentarily revealing a ghostly white face.  

“What is this? What’s going on?” Kaelas barked.

Cullen was enraged when he heard of the defilement of the Templars, lunging towards the boy to intimidate the rest of the information out of him, and the stranger shrank back behind Kaelas, frightened as a new-born nug.

The ensuing fight was awful. In minutes, flames had engulfed half the outlying buildings of Haven, making the place a mockery of its very name as the timber and thatch went up like tinder stores, sparks whirling into the sky. Demons and lyrium-crazed brutes studded with blood-red crystals filled the streets, and it was all Kaelas and his small group could do to fend them off long enough to get the citizens towards safety. Not everyone made it, but they fought desperately, clawing at the minutes as they slipped past, trying to buy these people time to escape to the chantry.

Once again, Kaelas and Dorian found themselves falling into step beside each other. “Herald!” Dorian called as they encountered a particularly large and dangerous group. “On your left.”

Kaelas gathered his mana and channelled a lightning strike powerful enough to char the demons to ash and cook the crazed Templars in their own plate armour, and Dorian whistled softly before sending out a blast of spirit magic that sent them staggering with their minds blank as new tent canvas for a moment.

“Good to know your hard-headedness is good for something!” Kaelas laughed wildly before lashing out frantically with the butt of his staff at a Templar who had seemed to come out of nowhere. Kaelas was not good with his staff as a melee weapon _at all_ , and he was soon reeling backwards with a cut to his forehead and a horrible ringing in his ears where the blade had smashed down, shattering the remnants of his magical barrier.

The Iron Bull barrelled in from his right, head lowered and charging like his namesake, bellowing a war cry that left even Kaelas feeling shaken, and he took the Templar out of commission while Kaelas snatched a frantic few moments to recover his strength and his mana. The clangour and cacophony surrounding them was horrible, smoke and other fouler scents clogging his nostrils, but the thought of these creatures murdering and desecrating the people who had given their lives in service to the cause – _his_ cause now, he supposed – was too awful to bear.

They saved as many as they could, recovering the trebuchets, and bringing half the mountain down on the troops. But their victory was short lived.

No sooner had their victory cries gone up than the most awful roars, like rusty metal dragged over granite, filled the air and seemed to make the very clouds reverberate in horror. Circling through the pale green blur in the sky where the Breach had been, it looked like an eerie bat, until it turned, heading straight for them. A crackling ball of red energy obliterated the trebuchet and the shadow of a dragon passed overhead. Its wings thrummed, making the air throb like a giant heartbeat.

“Everyone to the gates,” Kaelas barked, and they fled unquestioningly.

Cullen was apoplectic with worry by the time they got there, their bloodied faces now smeared with ash after pausing to help the blacksmith get back into his forge. “Move it, move it!” he shouted, beckoning them inside before ramming the gates shut himself. “We need everyone back to the chantry! It’s the only building that might hold against… that beast!” he said, climbing the steps with shaky legs.

“Let’s grab people on the way,” Bull suggested as he split off to help rescue various citizens in the east of the town, while Dorian and Kaelas went west. It was harrowing, but eventually they had helped everyone they could, and time was ticking.

The plan they settled on once the chantry doors had closed behind them was… not good. Dorian watched quietly in the shadows of the ancient stone building while they talked it through. The mage grew increasingly tense as both Kaelas and Cullen realised with a sinking dread that the only way out of this was to face this demon alone. It wanted him after all. The Chancellor told them of a way out, and Kaelas urged them to take it under Cullen and Cassandra’s leadership. If he could get the remaining trebuchet turned on the mountain above Haven, he could bring it down upon the town once the others were safely out of the way.

The elf had just made it to the chantry doors when someone grabbed his slender wrist.

“What?” he snarled, turning on the person who had halted his progress only seconds after he had made up his mind.

“Don’t do this,” Dorian pleaded. “Surely you can see it is madness!”

“You heard Cullen. I’m the only chance. It wants me. I have to do this.” He stared Dorian straight in the eye, looking up at the taller man. “You should get out while you can.”

“Please,” he said. “You’re the only reason…” he broke of, voice choked. “The only thing…” He ground his teeth and stopped himself. “Without you the Inquisition is nothing. You’re the lynchpin of this whole operation, can’t you see that?”

“You have to keep fighting. You have to help them. You, the mages… you have to prove to them that not everyone from Tevinter is a frothing, rabid necromancer, Dorian. You have to help them.”

“I’m coming with you.”

“I don’t have time for this!” he yelled as the ground shook and the archdemon passed overhead again.

“Count me in too, Boss,” said Bull, laying a heavy hand on his shoulder.

“I’m with you lad,” Blackwall grunted.

“Fine.”

The fight at the barricade was the worst yet. Just getting there was perilous enough, but once the true fight began, Dorian got knocked unconscious by a blow to the head that Kaelas had barely managed to heal before a colossal lyrium-studded monstrosity strode towards them. The ground trembled beneath its footsteps, but Dorian had rallied and Kaelas felt the familiar blanket of his wards settling into his skin as Dorian cast protective barriers around them all.

As their foes lay disintegrating about them, they used what strength remained in their battle-weary muscles and finally cranked the trebuchet into position. Elated and exhausted, Kaelas leaned heavily on the mechanism, breathing hard. But above the ringing in his ears he heard the dreadful call of the dragon once more and his heart sank.

“Run!” Kaelas roared as it loomed above them, turning in the sky, maw open. “Move! Now!” They scattered heading for the main gates of Haven.

In a cascade of crackling red energy, ground erupted beneath his feet and as he bounced like a discarded toy, the earth shook and the dragon landed. Winded and dazed, Kaelas lay staring up at the roiling sky above him for a moment, his ears ringing. Rubbing the back of his head, he pushed himself upright. _Please let them have got away,_ he thought vaguely as a figure emerged through the barrier of flames. A moment later, the arch demon was prowling towards him, and the dreadful, deep voice of the abomination sounded above the roar of the flames. “Pretender. You toy with forces beyond your ken. No more…”

Kaelas did his best to stand against him, but what was one Dalish elf’s will against all that raging evil. He learned the devastating truth about the mark, about the conclave, and at the end of it all, after the awful revelations, Kaelas, refusing to kneel, did the only thing in his power remaining to him.

Out of mana, trembling, weak, and with his body broken and bruised, he brought the mountain down upon them.

_Corypheus. A magister. An archdemon. The Orb of Destruction and the Anchor in his hand. Pain. Defiance. One last stand. Thundering, roaring snow. Chaos. Avalanche. Pain. Darkness._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you're enjoying it so far! Do let me know in the comments or over on my Tumblr! I also hope you're looking forward to more. Once they get to Skyhold, we'll see lots more Dorian and Lavellan time and less game recapitulation...


	4. A Momentary Respite

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kaelas staggers out of the avalanche and recovers enough to find the energy to flirt with Dorian a little on their way to Skyhold.

Kaelas woke alone in darkness and agony. He lay there for a long while, barely able to draw breath and with the eerie light of barely-illuminated ice all around him. Occasionally it creaked and sung like the great frozen rivers he’d heard of further south, but his hand burned and pulsed violently with green light, and suddenly that was all he could think about for a long moment.

He blinked his blue-grey eyes and tried to focus on anything but the pain in his hand and shoulder and side, floundering, useless as a downed bird, as he attempted to sit up. His cry of pain echoed off the walls around him and down the seemingly endless tunnels, though it was cut off short as his breath caught and tears filled his eyes. Gods above, he’d never been in so much pain. Even the pain of acquiring the deep scar which slashed down the right side of his face, and which had been lucky not to cost him his eye, had been nothing compared to this.

It soon became obvious that his shoulder was dislocated where Corypheus had held him aloft by only his left hand, and that his ribs were at least cracked, if not broken, where he’d been slammed backwards into the trebuchet with the force of a charging warhorse. The rest of his body was a mess of bruises and cuts, but when he’d forced himself to his feet and pushed his shoulder back into place with a sickeningly painful pop, he ground his teeth, took a few rasping breaths, and began to push forwards with faltering, stumbling steps.

It was excruciating.

His journey through the tunnels in search of a way out seemed to take an eternity. His breath fogged in the still air, half blinding him, and the ice was slick and treacherous beneath his feet in places. He slipped and crashed down more times than he cared to count. Each time he lay there, winded and dazed, before thinking of all those who had lost their lives in the attack, and how the survivors needed to know what had happened, what was coming. If there had even been any survivors after he’d pulled half a mountain down onto Haven.

He’d watched Bull and the others give their lives for him once already, back at Redcliffe in Alexios’ ‘ _reality-that-nearly-was_ ’, and it made him sick to his stomach to think that their fates were sealed in this world or another; that they were still going to die for him and his fucking stupid mark.

He thought of Bull’s big, bombastic grin, Cassandra’s firm, unshakable faith, Cullen’s surprisingly shy sense of humour, Varric’s twinkling eyes, and lastly he thought of Dorian. Dorian, with his silvery gaze and blustering arrogance that, Kaelas had begun to suspect, was really a front for a deeply self-conscious and insecure heart. Beautiful Dorian who smiled so frequently and yet whose _true_ smiles were so rare… His heart clenched thinking that they might not have escaped after all, that they might be lying under feet of rubble and suffocating snow, and he growled, clenching his teeth, feeling his tapering ears shift backwards slightly like a snarling wolf’s. As if responding to his vitriolic anger, the Anchor flared and spat suddenly, stealing his breath and his concentration for a moment.

Kaelas allowed himself the luxury of a single, pained snort of laughter as he pushed himself up yet again and stumbled on a little while later after yet another slip on the ice, thinking that he really was just a mistake. He hadn’t been sent by Andraste at all. The mark wasn’t a gift. It was pure fluke, pure stupidity, that he’d interrupted the ritual and picked up the Orb.

But, holy warrior or not, he still had to warn them. He had to make a difference. That was, if he ever got out of these interminable ice tunnels, and if there was even anyone left to warn.

As Kaelas trudged on in a blind daze of pain, exhaustion, and probably a mild concussion, he didn’t have the presence of mind to realise that the powers of the Anchor had somehow evolved. It was as though the Anchor itself had saved him, opening up a miniature rift of its own accord and lashing out at the creatures that haunted these dark, dank tunnels, allowing him to press on in his cloudy vagueness.

On and on he trudged, his extremities burning to eventual numbness as the wind lashed his face raw and leeched all but the faintest spark of life from him. He had emerged at some point onto a mountainside and was climbing blindly upwards, each step lancing pain through his body. It felt like wading through a deep quagmire, not powdery snow, but he couldn’t feel it now. His leggings were sodden and there was ice in his long red hair.

Somewhere in the fog of whiteness around him he heard wolves calling to one another.

“Falon'Din guide me,” he prayed, lips thick and senseless with the cold. “Take me to death or guide me where I need to be. Just don’t leave me out here.”

Something moved in the whiteout ahead.

Voices.

“There! It’s him!” Cullen?

“Thank the maker!” Cassandra?

“ _Serannasan Ma_ , Falon'Din,” Kaelas croaked in grateful thanks, even as his hearing warped. His knees buckled as the breath left him, and he crumpled face first in the snow.

The sounds of a heated argument close by roused him a little, the voices muffled and blurred together by the layers of canvas and his own grogginess.

The elf grunted softly, feeling a cold, bare hand press down on his forehead and someone murmuring something soothing from his bedside. He was lying on a litter somewhere. Canvas stretched above him, and for a moment he thought he was back among his people. But the winters were never this cold, nor the wind so harsh outside the tents and aravels. Vagueness washed over him and he slipped beneath the thin veil of sleep without a fight.

His hand no longer hurt – in fact nothing really hurt any more – but he was stiff, and oh so tired.

The light had shifted and faded entirely to night by the time he woke again, but those familiar voices were still at it. They must have been arguing for hours. Cullen, Josephine, Cassandra, Leliana: his quartet of seasoned advisors, all bickering like siblings at the dinner table.

Sighing, Kaelas sat up. There was work to be done.

It took another hour of arguing and bickering between the leaders before a plan was settled upon, and Kaelas’ headache had returned in full force. Eventually he extricated himself from their temporary war table, the slightly scorched map weighed down at the corners by tankards of frozen water. It was grim.

Kaelas wandered alone through the tents, trying not to look too closely at the haggard faces of the survivors, grief weighing heavy on their shoulders, shock emptying their eyes and expressions to leave little behind but haunted looks and blank faces. Some sat hunched over, stony-faced, and ground whetstones against blades, and others sat huddled and muttering around pathetic little fires, but most sheltered inside the scant protection of canvas tents that had not been made for such extremes.

And then, miraculously, amid all the sorrow and dejection, he heard laughter. A small group of children had found a leather ball from somewhere and were chucking it around over to his left.

One catch was missed, and the ball sailed a good way from them to hit a lone figure on the upper arm with a solid ‘thwack’. Kaelas watched as Dorian whipped around in surprise, magic crackling at his fingers, and the book he’d been reading fell to the snow. He hopped down off the supply wagon and the children took one look at him and shrank back. But Dorian only laughed good-naturedly – a warm, kind sound as he extinguished the dancing flames in a puff of smoke. Still laughing jovially, he picked up the ball and flicked it casually behind his back at them with one hand. It flew straight and true into the waiting hands of a scrawny little boy with bright red hair like Kaelas’.

“Whoa,” a younger girl gaped. “How’d you _do_ that?”

The one who had caught it tried to repeat it but the throw went wild, and the ball sailed towards Kaelas. With a twang of regret, he was reminded suddenly of the games that he and his brother had played between the aravels of his clan: bouncing the ball off the wooden surfaces of the ‘landship’ wagons with increasingly silly and elaborate trick shots, trying not to hit the halla by accident and spook them, or rouse the unwanted attentions of the Keeper.

He stooped, grunting a little with the effort as his newly-healed ribs protested, and tossed it back in the same fashion Dorian had, though with marginally less flair. The children then spent the next half an hour all trying to perfect the move with varying degrees of success, while Kaelas headed over to join the Tevinter mage. He picked up the fallen book and handed it back to Dorian, who smiled softly as he took it from him.

“You’ve recovered I see,” Dorian said by way of greeting. He had dark circles under his eyes and his armour was still spattered with blood and ichor from the fight. He’d made a half-arsed attempt at coiffing his hair though.

 _Ever the aesthete_ , Kaelas thought. “I had some help,” he said, fingers tracing the line of his ribs through his clothes. His head still pounded though and he narrowed his eyes, the corners tight and pinched with pain.

“Yes, the lady Vivienne,” Dorian said quietly. “It seems her services were preferable to those of a necromancer…” He looked carefully at Kaelas. “It seems she’s left me something to do, however?”

Kaelas sighed. “My head hurts,” he admitted.

“May I?” Dorian asked, raising his elegant fingers towards Kaelas’ temple. Kaelas could see how cold they were without the protection of the fine, halla-skin gloves he would probably have been used to, but the mage had made no comment on it. For all the impression he gave, it was a fine summer’s day.

Kaelas would have been lying if he’d said he hadn’t fought down a wave of instinctive panic at the thought of a Tevinter mage having access to him like that, but he’d worked with Dorian before, and the man had risked his life ten times over in the short time he’d come to know him. He swallowed and smiled shyly.

The elf then nodded once, and a flickering green light began to tingle at Dorian’s fingertips. He touched them briefly against Kaelas’ skin and warmth flowed through him, soft as a lover’s caress. Kaelas didn’t mean to moan the way he did, but the magic felt so good. It was as though a pounding, throbbing muscle had been released, made to relax, soothed, and he parted his lips and sighed with pleasure.

“There.” Dorian’s thumb traced a tiny arc across his temple and then his touch retreated. The warmth went with it, and Kaelas shivered at the loss of it. The wind was freezing and he didn’t have nearly enough clothes on, but then again, nobody really did, and it was infinitely better than trudging through deep drifts alone with a full set of bruised and broken ribs.

When he looked up at Dorian, he wasn’t sure if he was imagining the extra dusky blush to his cheeks or not. Perhaps it was just the cold wind pinching the apples of his cheeks to a deeper pink. “Thank you,” Kaelas said, surprised by how breathy and weak his voice sounded. “I have to admit that back there I thought I was going to need a necromancer over a healer…” He snorted, looking down at his quiescent hand. He gestured with it as he said, “I wonder if this would still work if you raised me from the dead… if I could still serve the Inquisition like that…”

“ _Don’t_ ,” Dorian rasped and looked at Kaelas with his intense, silver eyes. “We thought you were _dead_ ,” he hissed. “Back at Haven, when the dragon – archdemon, _whatever_ –” he flapped his hand dismissively, “ – landed and everything went to shit… Cassandra and Cullen said there was no way anyone could have survived that. And then when we saw the trebuchet launch, I realised we’d left you _alone_ down there to fight him…” He turned away, his jaw working, a muscle in his neck pulsing. “I thought…”

Kaelas had never heard Dorian like this before. The mage’s arsenal of florid language never ran dry, and yet here he was, speaking in short, staccato sentences, seemingly unable to articulate himself. Whatever he’d thought though, he didn’t share any more.

Dorian inhaled sharply and when he turned back to Kaelas, the elf could see that all his shiny, well-polished armour and solid bulwark walls were back in place. “Well, suffice it to say that it seems Andraste has chosen someone of sterner stuff than we’d all thought. You’re not so easy to kill after all, Herald.”

“You’ve heard the truth about Corypheus, haven’t you?” Kaelas asked, ignoring Dorian’s attempt to deflect. “The others told you.”

After a heartbeat, Dorian nodded. “Just when your opinion of Tevinter magisters couldn’t get any worse,” he said bitterly. “Turns out it’s a mad Tevinter magister who wants to enslave and destroy the world.”

“At least I’ve got one good one to offset all the others,” Kaelas grinned, digging Dorian in the ribs. A moment later he added, “Thank you for staying. You didn’t have to, you know? You could have just left and gone back to Tevinter…”

Dorian looked down at him from his superior height, but gone was the impression that he was looking down his nose at him. “And miss all the fun?”

“And the charms of the South?” Kaelas smirked.

“Some things are more charming than others,” Dorian said, his defences slipping just a little.

Kaelas beamed back at him, feeling his cheeks flushing. “I’m glad it’s not entirely bleak for you here, Dorian.”

“I don’t know,” Dorian said, looking around at the bedraggled refugee camp in the supposed shelter of the mountain clearing. “I just hope this place that Solas keeps harping on about isn’t too far. My fine boots were not made for all this endless trudging, you know?” He looked askance at Kaelas and caught the elf in the middle of a jaw-popping yawn. “You look like you could use some more sleep, Herald.”

“Please,” Kaelas moaned. “I don’t even believe in Andraste. Call me by my name.” He glared fiercely up at the mage. “Please.”

“Alright,” Dorian chuckled. “I apologise. But please, _Kaelas_ ,” he said, his tongue flirting with the syllables of his elven name in a way that made Kaelas’ heartbeat flutter perilously, “Would you return to your tent and get some sleep before you collapse and make my life infinitely more complicated?”

“Of course,” Kaelas said, slipping silently down into the snow from the supply wagon. “We can’t have the _evil_ Tevinter mage – master necromancer and teacher of tricks to small children – maligned and accused of sabotaging the precious Herald of Andraste, now can we?”

“Absolutely not. I’m glad you appreciate my position, Her–” Kaelas flicked a very small ball of lighting at Dorian’s nose the way a child might flick a dried pea at a puppy. “ _Kaelas_ ,” Dorian corrected, laughing.

“Thank you, Dorian.”

Dorian closed his eyes and bowed his head before returning to his book.

Surprisingly, Kaelas’ strength returned to him on the arduous journey to Skyhold, as though being out under an open sky had invigorated the elf once more – no matter that this sky was laden with heavy snow-clouds which threatened do dump enough snow on them to cover Haven all over again at any moment.

Solas sought him out one evening, Kaelas took the opportunity to discuss the orb with him, and the heritage of the elves. There was still something that didn’t sit right with Kaelas about the other elf, but he kept his thoughts to himself and concentrated on making the journey to the place of safety that was only a few days’ trek away now.

The Dalish elf, who had thought Haven the biggest city in the world after living his whole, relatively short, life roaming the Free Marches in the rumbling, wooden aravels of his clan, found himself speechless at his first glimpse of Skyhold. It was _unfathomably_ huge, straddling two peaks on the end of a winter-blasted promontory of the mountains. Seemingly ageless and solid as the stone beneath its foundations and curtain walls, the fortress beckoned them onwards, and a cheer went up and passed down the line as people began to realise they were almost there: almost safe; almost home.

The sense of hope was infectious, and Kaelas basked in it. Dorian caught up with him while the elf was still staring slack-jawed at it, and surprised him by slapping him playfully on the shoulder, laughing. “Are you alright?” he chuckled, eyes glittering as they turned from the elf to regard the bastion. “Even I’ll admit it’s quite the sight.”

“Glad you stayed around long enough to see this?” Kaelas breathed, tearing his eyes away from the castle to look up at Dorian standing on the rocky path beside him.

Dorian looked down at him again and grinned, all white teeth and mischievous humour. It was a smile that Kaelas had seen only rarely on the mage, and had come to love in his short time knowing him, though he wasn’t quite ready to acknowledge all the strange things it made his heart and insides do.

It did, however, prompt a mirrored gesture on his own face and, laughing, they began to make their way together down the treacherous path after Solas and the others.

Eventually they drew up to the main gates, crumbling and covered with ivy and creepers, of the great bastion that was to become their centre of operations in the fight to come, and, perhaps more importantly, their new home.

Kaelas drew a deep breath, inhaling the feel of the place, and as he glanced to his right, he saw Solas doing the same. It was as though the elves could sense some ancient magic beneath the bulwarks, and could taste the atmosphere itself, and while Dorian and Varric and a few others stumped away in search of firewood to burn and sheltered corners to curl up in, Kaelas simply stood there in the heart of the courtyard, lips parted in amazement.

Eventually he kicked his legs back into motion and followed the crowd towards the only habitable part of the castle, pitching in and helping to put up tents and secure guy ropes. He forgot himself in the easy familiarity of it all, and for just a moment – a few precious heartbeats – he was no longer the Herald of Andraste, but a simple Dalish elf who had found himself a very long way from home, from his scattered people, and from all that had been familiar to him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you're enjoying it so far! Don't forget to drop a kudos or even a comment if you are! Thank you :)


	5. Stone by Stone, Step by Step

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kaelas has the title of 'Inquisitor' somewhat sprung upon him...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for your feedback - both here and on Tumblr. It means the world to me, and I'm glad you seem to be enjoying it so far. We'll get to the Dorian x Lavellan stuff soon, I promise...

 

The fortress itself needed a _lot_ of work, but the people were buoyed up by having a place to call their own again, and having a project like this brought people together in a way that they might not have done without it. Although they were battered, exhausted, and nigh-on threadbare, morale slowly began to pick up.

Skyhold was a foothold in the mountains and a safe place to shelter and recover. In time, the courtyards filled up, rooms were gradually restored, personal touches began to appear here and there as people claimed various corners of the keep, and the healers’ tents began to empty as some of the less gravely-wounded soldiers got back on their feet. Others, sadly, were carried in solemn procession to the little graveyard in a quiet corner of the keep. Cole could often be found there, whispering things in the ears of those who came to lay mountain flowers on the fresh mounds of earth, but Kaelas avoided it when he could. Graves and death were not things he was comfortable seeing at the best of times.

One afternoon, perhaps only about a week after they’d been there, Kaelas emerged from the barbican watchtower and immediately saw Cullen, Leliana, Josephine, and Cassandra all gathered in a very suspicious-looking knot. The instant Cass spotted him, she grinned and beckoned him over. She muttered something to the others, and they all turned around to face him too. Even the elf’s sharp hearing didn’t catch what she’d said, and couldn’t help but narrow his eyes warily at the sight of them huddled like gossiping housewives on laundry day.

As he approached, Cullen, Leliana and Josephine all took their leave, and Cassandra folded her hands innocently behind her back. Her intense eyes took in the people milling about them, ferrying boxes and crates and supplies around the castle. “They arrive daily from every settlement in the region,” she said as he joined her. “Skyhold is becoming a pilgrimage.”

He wondered silently how many were there because of their faith in Andraste, and how many were there because of their faith in the sturdy stone walls of the bastion and the sharp steel of Cullen’s soldiers. Something told him Cassandra wouldn’t appreciate such musings though, so he said nothing.

She stepped back, inviting him to follow with a mere glance, and they made their way casually around the courtyard, heading for the stairs that led to the old keep. She was definitely up to something, but Kaelas still kept quiet, content to let her speak for the time being.

“If word has reached these people, it will have reached the Elder One,” Cassandra went on in her lilting alto. “We have the walls and numbers to put up a fight here, but this threat is far beyond what we anticipated.”

Despite the Dalish elf’s protests, Cassandra _still_ seemed to believe he had been brought to them by divine will. Nothing seemed able to turn Cassandra from her stalwart belief, not only in her _own_ faith, but in _him_. It would have been immensely  frustrating if her heart wasn’t in the right place.

“You are the creature’s rival because of what _you_ did. And we know it,” she said, leading him up the stairs. “All of us.”

To Kaelas’ surprise, Leliana was standing at the top of the stairs holding a huge sword in her hands. It glinted in the afternoon sunlight, freshly oiled and ancient looking. “Cass, what –?” he panted, but she interrupted him.

“The Inquisition requires a leader,” Cassandra said formally while Kaelas was still catching his breath following the short climb at this great altitude. His former fitness hadn’t quite returned to him after his injuries from the fight with Corypheus, and the altitude of Skyhold was something else too. The Seeker seemed unaffected as ever by the world around her. “The one who has _already_ been leading it.”

“What?” he gasped, and suddenly out of the corner of his eye he noticed the courtyard below filling with people, corralled and herded there by Cullen and Josephine.

They all looked up at him with hope on their faces and suddenly he couldn’t breathe at all. His heartbeat hammered in his ears. “No way,” he whispered.

“ _You_ ,” Cassandra said.

“But… You’re offering this to an _elf_?” he finally blurted. “Are you sure you know what you’re doing?”

He was greeted by a wry and rare smile from Cassandra. “I would be terrified handing this power to anyone, but I believe it is the only way.” She adjusted her weight on her feet like a practiced warrior, and raised her chin proudly. “They’ll follow you. To them, being an elf just shows how far you’ve risen; how it must have been by Andraste’s hand.”

Kaelas thought of the alienages all over the South, of the marginalised elves, descendants of those who had made the Long Walk, those ‘servants’ who barely ranked above slaves, and of course, the vast majority of the elves in Tevinter who were _still_ slaves. He could do this for _them_. It would be an uphill battle all the way, but he had allies – friends even – and then there was Dorian. If one Tevinter mage could look at him and see more than a living vat of blood, mere fuel for rituals, then perhaps there was hope for the rest of them?

The voice of Keeper Istimaethoriel drifted into his mind then. “Ah, Kaelas,” she had told the twelve year old boy who had just discovered he had the spark in him and had asked if he could use it to heal his mamae. “Ever the idealist, _da’lath’in_. You are not strong enough yet for that, and I think there is little more anyone could do for her. She is called onward to the Beyond by Falon’Din.”

Tears had coursed down the young elf’s face. “I shall become strong,” he had vowed, clenching little fists.

As Cassandra spoke, she gestured to the sword lying across Leliana’s palms, bringing Kaelas reeling back to the moment. _The left and right hands of the Divine,_ Kaelas thought as he looked at Cassandra and Leliana _. Bringing me to this._ _Perhaps it is fate after all._ _Gods, I think I’m going to be sick_.

“What it means to _you_ ,” Cassandra added, “How you lead us, is for you alone to determine.” Her tone told him that she still respected his faith, though it was not her own, and he could have blessed her for that.

He stared at the glinting blade for a long time. It looked ancient. Something thrummed in his feet through the thin soles of his boots, as though the ancient magic of the castle were reaching out to him; a sleeping beast stirring. Finally he wrapped his slender fingers around the foreign sword hilt, hefting its considerable weight for a moment.

His heart was pounding so hard that Kaelas thought he might just die then and there, but he refused to make such a spectacle of himself, and gathered his wits about him. “I will lead us against Corypheus, and I will be an ambassador,” he said quietly to Cassandra and Leliana. “I am an elf, standing for Thedas,” he added, fighting incredulous laughter at that thought in particular. “The Inquisition is for _all_.”

“Wherever you lead us,” Cassandra vowed as she walked to the edge of the curve in the stairs where this ceremony had been sprung upon him. “Have our people been told?” she called loudly, lending the question the immediate air of a ritual.

“They have,” answered Josephine, standing beside Cullen below and smiling. “And soon the world.”

“Commander, will they follow?” Cassandra yelled.

Cullen turned to face his troops like a lion prowling before his pride. “Inquisition! Will you follow?” The men and women in staggered ranks bellowed their acceptance. “Will you fight?” Cullen demanded, and again they cheered. “Will we triumph?” he asked, and Kaelas turned with incredulous eyes as their shouts shook the ravens from the parapets.

This was _insane_.

He was a _Dalish elf_ , not some noble prince. He had no fucking idea what he was doing. This shouldn’t be him. He had no head for politics. Not really. He was just supposed to study hard and become a mage and advise his brother. It was his brother who had had the head to become leader, not Kaelas… He fought to stave of hysterical laughter again as the wind caught his long, dark red hair and made his blue-grey eyes water with the cold.

Finally Cullen drew his own blade and turned to face Kaelas standing stunned on the stairs above him, and roared, “Your leader! Your Herald! Your _Inquisitor_!”

“Oh, gods preserve me,” he muttered to himself before raising the blade high in the air above him in answer to Cullen’s gesture.

The crowds eventually dispersed, their mood high and jubilant, and Cullen practically skipped up the stairs three at a time to join them. “Alright, _Inquisitor_?” he laughed, clapping Kaelas on the shoulder. “Thought you were going to puke all over us for a minute back there…”

“It’s yet another miracle of your Andraste that I didn’t,” he chuckled dryly, handing the sword to Cassandra. “Here, take this off me before I chop this ‘blessed’ hand off by accident,” he said, and they all laughed. It was widely known already that he was a truly terrible weapons fighter, though he was lethal enough with his magic, thank the gods.

“I will see it safely stored away, Inquisitor,” she said tactfully.

Kaelas, Josephine, Cullen, and Leliana made their way up the steps into the carcass of the keep which had been left untouched til then. Stepping over collapsed roof timbers and piles of rubble, with chandeliers lying broken and buckled where they had fallen, Kaelas heard the flapping of pigeons’ wings in the remaining rafters. At least the glass was still in tact at the far end of the nave-like hall.

“So,” Cullen murmured. “This is where it begins.”

“It began in the courtyard,” Leliana countered quietly. “This is were we turn that promise into action.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things get interesting next chapter because he and Dorian have a discussion about slavery in Tevinter, and Kaelas gets to know Cole a little better. Don't forget to leave me a comment if you like it, or a kudos if you'd prefer! Hope you're keen for more.


	6. Spirit of the Place

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kaelas gets to know Cole a bit better, and uses the fledgling Inquisition as an excuse to work himself to exhaustion as the anniversary of his brother's death comes around again...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mentions of grief and fleeting descriptions of violence, plus Cole is a sweetheart who needs to be protected and accepted, and Kaelas is terrible at coping... Dorian makes an attempt to flirt and cheer him up, along with Bull and Varric...

The first few weeks at Skyhold were manic. Ravens were sent out to every contact Leliana had in her extensive network, and Kaelas spent more time in the chamber they had claimed as the war room than he did in his own bed. There were more active missions going on than there were active brain cells in Kaelas’ head, he was certain of it.

His chambers were another thing altogether. He could have housed his whole clan and all their aravels quite comfortably inside the suite of rooms he had been assigned, and probably would have had space left over for all their halla as well. He had stared incredulously at Josephine when she’d first opened the doors and waved him inside. “Your quarters, Inquisitor.”

“You can’t be serious,” he gaped, laughing a nervous, high laugh in a broken, boyish tenor. The urge to run over to the enormous bed and jump on it had been almost insatiable and it was a miracle he’d restrained himself.

“I am perfectly serious,” she said, a warm understanding in her hazel eyes. “We have fitted them out as well as we were able with the supplies we had to hand, but –”

“Josephine,” he murmured, staring around. “It’s… It’s incredible. I don’t deserve this… not when there are people sleeping in tents in the courtyard… I could sleep out there with them… I…”

“You are our leader, Inquisitor Lavellan. You need to be the symbol as much as you need to be the person.”

He blinked, and, with a sinking feeling, he understood. “I wish…” he began, but what exactly was it he wished for? To be back with his clan? Or further back in time than even the conclave? For his brother still to be alive? Of course part of him wanted that more than anything in the whole world, but he was an elf in a position of more power than any elf in Thedas could ever have dreamed of. This was a chance not only to fight great evil, but to raise the profile of his people. He could do real good here, and not just against Corypheus either.

Josephine watched the emotions wheel across his face and smiled kindly. She bowed herself out, allowing him to explore and adjust in privacy.

There was even a huge wardrobe, which he lost no time digging through, and while some of the outfits were frankly ridiculous, there was something that would suit him very nicely. “Bless you, Josephine,” he murmured as he drew out the kind of clothing that he’d not seen since leaving his people. He slipped into comfortable, forest-coloured leggings and soft boots, and a slim jacket and scarf that just oozed ‘Dalish’, and grinned a broad, boyish smile. Kaelas was a Dalish elf, and though he bore no _vallaslin_ , he was proud of his heritage. He was _also_ the Inquisitor. “Shit,” he laughed nervously. “I’m never going to get used to that…”

He shook his head and stared around a little longer before heading towards the balcony and gazing out at the unbelievable, rugged beauty of the scene before him. It was bitterly cold, but it was fresh and vibrant and, despite his staggering tiredness, he felt alive again. The mountains stretched on forever, barely leaving an inch between rugged rock and sky, with shreds of cloud snagging on their roughest peaks like soft wool on blackthorn bushes.

Below him he could hear the murmur of people, the clang of steel, and the constant tramp of feet, and he knew he could not afford to take long for himself. Not when there was still so much work to be done.

Kaelas left the main keep by a side door and almost immediately caught the sound of an argument going on below. “What now…?” he muttered to himself.

The rich baritone of Solas’ distinctive voice mingled with Cassandra’s husky alto, and as he descended the stone stairs, Kaelas caught sight of a familiar and ludicrously-oversized hat. Cole, that strange boy who had brought them the news and helped to save them back at Haven, was sitting cross-legged on the ground, poking about in the dirt like a small child.

Sparing him merely a glance, Kaelas headed for the bickering pair up ahead just as Cassandra said, “But this violates everything we know about the Fade!”

“So it does,” Solas replied with that infuriatingly placid tone of his.

Cassandra acknowledged Kaelas’ arrival with a sidelong look and growled, “Inquisitor. I wondered if Cole was perhaps a mage, given his _unusual_ abilities.” It seemed that Cassandra was convinced that the boy was a demon, while Solas hedged towards something a little more complex.

“Let me talk to him,” Kaelas said, his voice heavy with exhaustion, turning and discovering that the little sunlit spot where Cole had been poggling in the dirt was now deserted.

He stared around but it was Solas who nodded silently towards the collection of healers’ tents not far off. Following his gaze, Kaelas found the boy pacing slowly towards one of the more gravely wounded soldiers, muttering softly and clenching and unclenching his fingers in distress.

“Haven,” the strange boy said as Kaelas drew near, speaking as much to himself as to anyone else. “So many soldiers fought to protect the pilgrims so they could escape.”

His lovely voice was laced with something deep, something that spoke of empathy in a way that Kaelas had never heard in anyone before. He stood mesmerised as Cole began to speak again in fragments.

“Choking fear. Can’t think from the medicine but the cuts wrack me with every heartbeat.” He held his hands up as though he felt pain in them. Cole fiddled with his left hand and Kaelas thought for a moment he had somehow stepped inside the elf’s own mind as he said, “Hot, white pain. Everything burns. I can’t. I can’t. I’m going to…”

It was as the boy spoke his next words, however, that Kaelas realised he hadn’t invaded his mind. Cole turned his watery blue eyes on the figure on the ground and brought his left hand to his forehead, expression crumpling. “I’m dying, I’m…” Cole swallowed thickly. “Dead.” On the last word, all that crushing emotion drained from his voice, leaving nothing more than the husk of the word on his tongue.

Kaelas stared at him. “You’re feeling their pain?” he asked eventually.

Cole cast his eerie gaze all around the sick tents. “It’s louder this close, with so many of them,” he said.

“Would… you like to go somewhere more comfortable?” Kaelas asked hesitantly.

The boy smiled then, and for an instant the knowledge of a thousand years lay behind that expression. “Yes,” he said, “But here is where I can help.”

So simple. He made things seem so simple. Perhaps _too_ simple.

And when he drew his dagger, aiming with the best intentions to end the life of a soldier in agony, Kaelas begged the spirit to consider that there might still be hope for the man.

“How do you know?” the boy asked, genuine curiosity shining in his hoarse voice.

“I don’t,” Kaelas admitted. “And neither do you,” he added. “That’s… part of life.”

Cole considered his words carefully. He stared hard at the weak soldier who lay there, clearly mere heartbeats away from death’s domain. “Try,” Cole told him fiercely, as though all the power he possessed could make it better.

And perhaps it did. That soldier went on to recover, and Cole happened to be by Kaelas’ side a fortnight later when the soldier’s husband arrived at Skyhold.

Kaelas had worked himself to the bone, but things were going well. Ravens returned bearing missives of success from all over Thedas, and Kaelas himself had been out on a few missions to the Hinterlands once his strength had begun to return in earnest after the fight at Haven. He had been on his way back from talking to Krem about an expedition to the Storm Coast when he’d discovered that Cole had fallen silently into step beside him at some point without his noticing.

“Good afternoon, Cole,” he said.

“It is,” the spirit replied, grinning broadly. “Look!”

A shout rent the morning air and a plain-looking farmer in thick woollens dropped the bundle he’d been carrying over one shoulder and rushed towards the healers’ tents with a broken yell of joy. The soldier who had been at the very threshold of death was now sitting up on a litter outside, taking in the fresh air, and his husband came crashing down to his knees beside him, embracing him, sobbing into his neck.

Cole smiled softly for a moment, like forest sunlight on snowdrops, before he looked up at Kaelas with pure, innocent delight gilding his pale features. “You were right,” he said, with no trace of resentment. If anything, he sounded grateful.

The elf had been able to get to know the spirit a little in the few weeks he’d spent at Skyhold, and he’d learned to read Cole to a certain extent, to decipher his strange way of speaking that often made people’s heads spin. Cole made most people forget that he’d ever been around them, but when the elf had asked him not to do that with him, the spirit had nodded a quiet promise. Of course, Kaelas had no way of knowing for sure, but he suspected Cole would keep his word.

They looked at the reunited couple and suddenly words began to pour from Cole. He shuddered, tears pouring down his ghostly face, unable to stop the torrent of emotion he was living from tumbling out of his lips. “Love, oh Maker! Alive. Like firelight. Close. Let me be close. Never close enough. Sundering pain. If I ever lost you. Death. Darkness. Shattering, oh I couldn’t bear it. Love. Love. _Love_.”

Kaelas smiled and turned away just in time to hear Cole’s tone shift slightly, an indication that he was ‘reading’ someone new, and caught him say, “Just me now. Pain and aching loss. Half of my soul gone with yours. Starlight. Starlight in your eyes just like in your name. Bear it alone.”

His feet faltered in shock at hearing his own heart’s deepest thoughts voiced aloud by someone else.

“He’s not coming back. He’d know what to do here. He always knows what to do. Want him back more than anything, but gods, not like that. Not…” Cole’s eyes went wide and he gasped and shuddered.

“Cole, please,” Kaelas rasped, turning in a flash to glare at him. “Not here. Don’t… Don’t talk about that here. Please, I can’t bear it.” Shame and grief billowed thick and hot in his throat and he fought off stinging tears.

“But it hurts!” Cole said, taking half a step towards him. “It hurts. It’s hurting brighter than the mark on your hand and now I can see it. I want to heal it but… I… I don’t know if…”

“You can’t, Cole,” he snapped, turning his back on him. “No one can. Just… drop it, alright?”

He was met with silence, and when he looked back towards the spirit, he found the courtyard empty and Cole was nowhere to be seen. Cole had only been trying to help – that was all Cole ever wanted – and he’d bitten his head off for it. “Dammit,” he hissed. This time of year was always the worst, and part of the reason for his excessively busy schedule over the past week had stemmed from the need for a distraction, but perhaps he had taken it too far this time.

Sighing, Kaelas ground his teeth, steadied his breathing, and turned his steps away from the happily reunited couple. Feeling little better, he began the long trudge up to Leliana’s tower, which had affectionately become known around Skyhold as the Raven’s Tower. He passed through the library like a shadow, ignoring everyone, and as the rank stink of raven guano and the constant cronking and rustling of feathers grew louder, his sharp elven ears caught mutterings and hushed conversation. Such was the secretive atmosphere of the spymaster’s lair.

As he neared the top of the stairs, slightly puffed and more than a little lightheaded after having missed breakfast and lunch that day, and supper the night before too, he realised with a sense of plunging dread that he had walked in on the tail end of a ‘discussion’ between Cullen and Leliana.

“I’m sorry,” Leliana murmured, with surprising empathy in her voice.

“So am I,” Cullen hissed bitterly, turning and faltering when he saw Kaelas approaching from the shadows of the stairwell. The elf’s footsteps were nearly silent on the wooden boards of her tower-top haunt. The commander stalked out past him with barely a nod, and Kaelas raised an eyebrow at Leliana with trepidation in his scarred features.

The fair-skinned spymaster looked weary for only a heartbeat before she hid it all away behind her habitually unreadable expression and turned to face him. “Inquisitor,” she said wryly. “I was not expecting a visit. You had little interest in speaking to me privately before.” He cast her a chagrined look. “But,” she amended with a kind smile, “As dear Josephine says, it’s never too late to make a friend.”

“I… hope I’m not interrupting anything,” he said awkwardly.

Leliana obviously sensed that he still felt way out of his depth when it came to the kind of politics that the Orlesians affectionately called The Game, but graciously opted for the truth. “The commander was just delivering… the names of those we lost at Haven,” she said, her voice catching in her throat. She turned away and leaned down heavily over her desk. “You must blame me for this,” she added.

Kaelas let out a soft noise, somewhere between despair and sympathy. “We all saw who attacked us,” he said evenly, going to stand beside her. She always seemed so strong, like a dagger of finest steel, but there was a human fragility beneath her mail armour. “We know exactly who to blame,” he said with a fierce growl.

The pain in Leliana’s eyes mirrored his own, and he spent the rest of his visit trying to convince her that she was only human after all, and that she was not just some chess piece, the same way the Inquisition’s own people were not mere tools. These were living people, all caught in an infinitely intricate web, and where one tug on the skein could cause hundreds of lives to unravel in a heartbeat.

The whole damned tower must have heard their ensuing argument, but Kaelas suddenly found that he didn’t care. Hers was an awful burden to bear, but he was determined that she was not going to bear it alone. None of them would. He took his leave before he said something else he would instantly come to regret. He wished her a good evening and encouraged her not to work late into the night, knowing she would do so just the same.

A wave of exhaustion washed over him as he came down the rickety wooden staircase from the upper levels, and his head spun. He knew he should have ducked into the kitchens, but troubling the cooks for something outside of castle mealtimes had seemed like too great an imposition at the time, as though he would have been asking for special treatment.

Blinking the spots of darkness from his vision, he staggered and grabbed at the rough stone wall beside him. He didn’t see Dorian look up from the table in surprise, frowning behind his secondary curtain-wall of uncatalogued books, but he heard the soft gasp, and so Kaelas left, shaking his head slightly, and decided he should probably head to his quarters and rest before caused a scene by fainting or something. He was no good to anyone if he ran himself entirely ragged but he knew that if he slept, he would dream, and if he dreamed, he knew who would visit him.

It was that dreadful time of year where he avoided looking in reflective surfaces in case it wasn’t _Kaelas_ that he saw, but his brother. “Stop it,” he snarled as he trudged up the interminable staircase to his rooms. “Just –” His toe caught the lip of the step and he tumbled forwards, bashing his shins on the edge of the stairs, his wrists jarring as he went down. The Anchor crackled and spat for a moment, flaring hot with green light and pain. “ _Fenedhis_ ,” he swore, picking himself up and fighting the head-rush that went with it. Two steadying breaths later, and he was staggering forwards into his bedroom, his legs heavy and stiff, his eyelids barely keeping open.

It was a miracle that he crawled onto his bed at all, but he made it. He flopped down face first, fully clothed and with his boots still on, and he was asleep in under a minute.

The dreams did come.

To begin with it was laughter and catching butterflies, studying, learning, running, playing, simple magic tricks and wide eyes. But then it was the cold solitude of the ritual before the _vallaslin_ , and then it was blood on the snow between the silent birches, and terror and inconsolable rage, and the dark skin of Tevinter slavers, a hot blade down his throat, a lifeless body in his quivering arms, and he woke with a shout, tangled in sweaty sheets, and twice as tired as when he’d gone to bed mere hours earlier.

After a perfunctory splash of water over his face, Kaelas headed for the Herald’s Rest, the inn that had been recently refurbished, and was surprised to see Scout Harding enjoying the last rays of sunlight outside. He greeted her and she grinned up at him, eyes glittering. She always seemed pleased to see him, and he stopped to talk with her a while. Their relationship had been easy and friendly, her freckled face splitting into a glorious smile each time she saw the elf. “Head on in,” she said. “I think Bull and the Chargers are in there. Varric and Sera too.”

“You always know what’s what and who’s where, don’t you?” Kaelas chuckled.

She tapped the side of her nose and laughed. “It’s my job, Inquisitor.”

“And you do a fine one at that,” he said, excusing himself and slipping into the inn.

The sweet voice of Maryden, the inn’s new bard, floated up from beside the stairs, and Kaelas paused a moment to listen. The song she sang was one of the Dalish melodies, though the words were different from the ones he knew. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught Krem sitting with his back to the wall, drinking deeply from a wine goblet and sharing a quiet corner with a few of Bull’s Company. Krem raised his cup to Kaelas and grinned, at which the elf nodded politely and smiled back. He’d always liked the Chargers for their straight talk and quiet acceptance of anyone who proved themselves honest and loyal.

He crossed to Cabot at the bar and asked him a little about the mood of the place before the dwarf slid a plate of hearty food down in front of him and told him to eat up before he fell down. “You look skinnier by the day, Inquisitor.”

“I have to agree,” came a rasping, jovial voice next to him, and he turned to find Varric sliding onto a stool beside him. The other dwarf slapped Kaelas’ flat stomach with the back of his hand and knocked the wind out of him. “I think if you turn sideways, you’re in danger of turning invisible… Got to put some meat on those delicate Dalish bones, otherwise Corypheus’ dragon will just use you as a toothpick…”

“It nearly did back at Haven,” Kaelas muttered darkly as he started to poke the roasted nug around the plate. It looked delicious, but he felt sick at the sight of the dead meat. It made him think of bodies charred by lightning. Lighting that had come from his own hands to avenge the death of his brother who lay, bleeding and broken in the snow, his head cradled and flopping in Kaelas’ slick, red hands…

Bull’s heavy footsteps sounded on the floorboards behind him and he took a chair beside Kaelas, dragging it back over the floorboards and making him jump out of his awful reverie. The Iron Bull always made a lot of noise, though Kaelas knew he could move more quietly than a mouse in the wainscot when he wanted to. “S’up, Boss?” he said. “We heading out anywhere soon?”

“I hope so,” Kaelas said. “I can’t stand being cooped up in here much longer. There’s a mission on the Storm Coast I want to address,” he said. “We need to establish more of a foothold there, but our scouts have reported problems with a bunch of mercenary bandits or something.”

“Count me in, Boss,” Bull said before ordering a tankard of something strong enough for scholars to clean the nibs of their inkpens with. “You want one, Boss?” Bull asked Kaelas.

“A whole pint of that bilge water?” Kaelas said, eyeing the tankard that was larger than his own head. “No, thanks. I don’t tend to drink much anyway.”

“Goes straight to that pretty head of yours, I bet,” Bull laughed, ruffling Kaelas’ hair.

“You know,” Varric said hesitantly, “You might seem more like one of us if you got drunk every now and again…”

“Trust me, Varric, you wouldn’t want to see me drunk. If I’m no fun when I’m sober…”

“I didn’t say that,” Varric corrected quickly. “I just meant…”

“I know,” Kaelas smiled. “It’s just… been a lot to deal with, you know?”

“All the more reason to let your hair down once in a while,” the Iron Bull supplied. “It’s long enough and pretty enough…”

“Bull, stop flirting with the Inquisitor,” Varric laughed, and Kaelas’ face flushed crimson, right to the tips of his ears, which made both of them roar with laughter.

“Are you bullying our dear Inquisitor?” a new voice said from behind, and all three of them turned to see Dorian standing there.

“Sparkles!” Varric grinned. “It’s unusual to see you over here amongst the common folk! Normally you’re drinking the best stuff alone at your lofty table on the second tier…”

“Yes, well,” Dorian blustered. “I thought I’d see how the other half lived… you seem to be having much more fun…”

“Draw up a chair,” Bull said. “There’s always room for another pretty face, right Inquisitor?”

“‘ _Another_ ’ pretty face?” Dorian sneered. “I only see a slab of grey muscle, a blond dwarf with a face like he’s hewn from rock, and an elf as crimson as his hair… The way I see it, I’m the _only_ pretty face here…”

Varric rolled his eyes and turned to Cabot. “Get this decorative ornament a brandy before he goes on like this all night, will you?”

“Gladly,” Cabot snorted.

While Dorian was waiting for his drink, he glanced sideways at Kaelas, whose face has slowly started to return to its normal tanned and freckled colour. “How are things going, Inquisitor?” he asked quietly.

“Please, I thought you were going to call me Kaelas from now on?” the elf said, tiredness weighing his words down at the edges.

“Apologies, I was, wasn’t I?” After a moment he prompted, “Well?”

“Alright, I suppose.” He shunted his half-eaten food along the bar towards the Iron Bull. “Listen, Bull, don’t let this go to waste. Besides, you’ll need something to line your stomach with that turpentine you’re drinking…”

“Iron Bull, iron stomach,” he grinned, slapping his big, solid belly. “But thanks, Boss,” he added, his voice filling with gentle concern. “You sure you don’t want it?”

Kaelas nodded. “Lost my appetite,” he said, sliding gracefully from the stool. He looked at Varric and Dorian and Bull and then sighed. “Enjoy your evening,” he said as he stalked away, the fingertips of his right hand tracing a brief circle at his temple.

“Something I said?” Varric muttered.

“Perhaps it’s the company,” Dorian murmured, mostly to himself. He drained his brandy glass in one go and requested another from Cabot with a silent gesture. The dwarf complied, and Dorian drained that one too.

Bull and Varric exchanged glances and excused themselves, heading back towards the Chargers and some livelier company, leaving Dorian to drink alone at the bar, and Kaelas to head back to the tower to fester in his ever-darkening mood.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things will be a little more... cathartic and hopeful in the next chapter, I promise, plus Dorian and Kaelas take a step closer...


	7. Old Wounds and New Friends

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kaelas lets his grief get the better of his judgement and lashes out at Dorian on the issue of Tevinter slavery...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mentions of blood magic, slavery, grief, and past familial losses…
> 
>  I hope you're enjoying their story so far!

 

Another fierce storm whipped up around Skyhold that night, and the rain lashed against the windows, washing away the dust and grime. Kaelas avoided the war room the following morning, choosing instead to nurse his foul mood in the peace of the library instead.

He had awoken to find a plate of bread and eccentrically-cut slices of soft, mild cheese on his bedside table, and suspected Cole’s silent hand at work. He couldn’t help but smile at the sweet gesture, even as his stomach rumbled. There was also a glass of water with a little slice of lemon in, and a note written in an irregular, spidery hand that said, ‘ _DrinK tHis fiRst you’LL fEEL beTTeR for It_.’ And, surprisingly, he did, though it didn’t dispel the clouds in his mind. Every third thought seemed to lead back to his brother.

Kaelas had hardly slept that night. It’d had nothing to do with the atrocious weather and as he stalked into the library he felt sure he was bringing some of the storm clouds with him. Only Halisma dared to accost him, and he growled something noncommittal at her which he’d forgotten almost as soon as he’d passed her by. She didn’t seem to object, but guilt still churned and festered in his stomach, only deepening his scowl.

Dorian’s usual alcove was empty at that time of the morning, but by about eleven o’clock, the mage sauntered in looking a little hungover but otherwise immaculately turned-out as usual, and began to run his fingers lovingly along the spines of the books. He began searching out one volume in particular from the shelf and drawing it carefully down with delicacy and respect.

“Good morning, Kaelas,” he said quietly when he saw the elf sitting at the table against the wall nearby.

Kaelas looked up from the book he’d been reading on the geography of the Storm Coast and nodded at him.

“Mind if I join you?” Dorian asked. “I need a table to do some translation work at, and since there’s a spare seat right there…”

“Go ahead,” Kaelas said, waving his hand at the chair opposite him.

They worked in companionable silence for a while, but when Kaelas discovered a passage about smugglers from Tevinter using the basalt caves on the Storm Coast as launch points to smuggle captured slaves out of Ferelden, he ground his jaw and glared up at Dorian as though he himself were to blame.

Kaelas read on, delving more and more into the Tevinter slave trade and the history of the elvhen enslavement which he already knew from his Keeper.

The mage was scribbling away, oblivious of the elf’s mounting distress, trying to work out a translation for some archaic verb conjugation, completely and blissfully ignorant of Kaelas’ mood. Eventually, however, he must have felt Kaelas’ eyes on him, because he glanced up and raised a perfectly-groomed eyebrow curiously at him. “Everything alright? Have I splodged ink on my face?”

Kaelas ignored the attempt at humour. “Dorian… Can I ask you something?”

“Of course,” he said, his wide, white smile flashing in the dimness of the library. He set down his pen and added, “I do so love the sound of my own voice, as you well know…”

“Yes,” Kaelas said flatly. He took a deep breath, looked momentarily down at the book on the table, and then said in a rush, “Anyone who talks about the Imperium mentions slavery. It’s the centre of the slave trade…”

Dorian’s jovial expression evaporated and he crossed his arms defensively, leaning back in his seat. “Ah. That… is true,” he said, suddenly looking anywhere but at Kaelas’ long ears.

“ _And_?” Kaelas prompted, instantly irritated by the Tevinter’s reaction. “Did you have slaves?”

Dorian squirmed for half a moment, though he immediately composed himself. “Not personally, but my family does and treats them well,” he said quickly, his voice suddenly devoid of all his usual humour. “Honestly, I never thought much about it until I came South…”

“Right,” Kaelas said, feeling his cheeks heat. “Of course not. Why would you?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Dorian asked. “And what’s brought this on?” His gaze flickered down to the page beneath Kaelas’ slender, splayed fingers.

Kaelas’ own eyes flashed. “As long as your beds are made, your clothes are washed, and your tables are groaning with fine food and wine, why _would_ you question anything, right?” he hissed.

Dorian’s nostrils flared. “Now that’s hardly fair,” he said. “Back home, it’s… how it is? Slaves are everywhere. You don’t question it. I’m not certain many slaves do.”

“Can even you hear yourself?” Kaelas snarled. “We don’t have slaves in the South,” he growled. “So maybe you’ll have to learn how to tie your own shoelaces here…”

“In the South, you have _alienages_ , slums both human and elven. The desperate have no way out,” Dorian argued hotly, though he kept his voice low out of respect of the other library users. “Back home, a poor man can sell himself. As a slave, he could have a position of respect, comfort, and could even support a family.” Kaelas began shaking his head but Dorian went on. “Some slaves are treated poorly, it’s true, but do you honestly think inescapable poverty is better?”

“Is _that_ what you call it? ‘ _Treated poorly_ ’?” Kaelas fired back. “I spent the entire morning yesterday with a former slave from your beloved _homeland_ , trying to convince her that working as a paid member of the Inquisition here in the castle, where she’s free to take her _earnings_ and leave at any moment, is infinitely better than the life she had before. Do you even know what they did to her, Dorian?”

The mage’s jaw ground but he kept silent. He would have a good idea, for sure.

“She’s got scars all up her arms, neck, and even on her _face,_ where your precious _magisters_ stuck her like a pin cushion and used her blood for rituals!” He raked his long, red hair back out of his eyes and went on, barely pausing for breath. “Cole said she can’t sleep for the screaming in her mind. Voices that aren’t even her own, Dorian…”

“Abuse heaped upon those without power isn’t limited to Tevinter, my friend,” Dorian said calmly, though something did flicker in the depths of his eyes. “I don’t know what it’s like to be a slave, true. I never thought about it until I saw how different it was here.” His voice was quiet, his consonants soft, almost dangerous. “I’m truly sorry and appalled that she’s been put through that, but I suspect _you_ don’t know what it’s like to be a slave, either, nor should you believe every tale of Tevinter excess is the norm.”

Tears sprang hot and angry to Kaelas’ eyes and he pushed back suddenly from the table, unable to sit there any longer. The scrape of the wooden chair on the stone floor was raucous and shattered the fragile peace of the library tower.

Dorian looked taken aback for a moment. He clearly had no idea how close his comments had cut to the mark.

“You think you know everything about me?” Kaelas spat. “You think that because I was made ‘Inquisitor’, put up on a pedestal and waved about in public like a damned Inquisition banner, you think you suddenly know everything about me?”

Dorian blinked, looking like he’d have rather taken half a step back from him. Kaelas had never lost his temper with anyone in public, not like this. He had always been quiet, reserved, listening before speaking, if he even opened his mouth at all. “Kaelas, where is this coming from?” Dorian asked again.

“Forget it,” he sniffed, turning away and heading for the stairs. “I don’t know why I thought you’d be any different after all. I’m sorry I asked.”

“Kaelas, please! Wait –” Dorian said, half rising, but the elf was already marching away, leaving the mage more than a little stunned, feeling like a whirlwind had just passed through him while leaving everything else untouched.

Kaelas stormed away, tears now finally running down the deep gully of the scar down his right cheek, and he found himself weaving through the stone passages of the castle without giving a thought to where he was headed. He needed open sky above him, and grass beneath him, and a breeze on his face.

He emerged into the little secret courtyard garden where elfroot had taken over an entire herb bed and a gnarled rowan tree had found a foothold in one corner. Beneath it was a stone basin, sunk partly into the earth where water poured into it from a deep, underground spring. The rowan’s roots cradled it gently, like the fingers of a cupped hand. The water was only a few degrees above freezing at that time of year, and he slumped down beside it and stuck his hands into it, hissing at the temperature. It cooled and soothed his temper like an ice spell on a fresh burn.

Regret seeped into him with the chill of the water. He’d always had a temper that burned steadily on a long, slow fuse. It took a long time for him to blow up like dwarven powder, and when he did, he burned hot and bright in a short flash. It always faded quickly, leaving him weak and shaken and full of regret. It had always been that way. He had been the quiet, shy twin, and his brother had been gregarious and open. _He_ should have been Inquisitor, not Kaelas.

The elf splashed his face and sat there breathing heavily, fighting memories as they surged to the forefront of his mind. He struggled to control his breathing. Guilt and grief curdled in his blood and left him a sour, roiling mess. He shouldn’t have taken it out on Dorian.

After some time alone he heard footsteps on the passageway that led up to the garden, and looked up to see Dorian himself entering, as though called by Kaelas’ thoughts. “Before you say anything,” the mage said, raising his elegant hands slightly, “I won’t stay long if my presence is not welcome, and I didn’t come to corner you or argue further.”

That deep-seated, Dalish pride surged momentarily in his chest and Kaelas almost said something he knew he’d come to regret. Taking a massive breath, Kaelas held it for a moment, then released it, deflating somehow more than his lung capacity would allow for. He hung his head.

“I’m sorry, Dorian. I should not have cornered you like that. And I shouldn’t have asked you about all that. Not today. Not with the mood I’m in. It wasn’t fair of me.” Kaelas didn’t look up as he added, “And you’re not responsible for the crimes of your country.” After another pause he snorted a soft laugh and said, “You’re a good man, Dorian. You’ve proven that any number of times already. I’m sorry.”

Dorian was quiet for a moment and then he said lightly, “Well, that’s a relief. May I come and join you?”

Kaelas swallowed and nodded. Dorian paced quietly across the little sacred space and sank down cross-legged onto the damp grass beside Kaelas, a polite but not impassable distance between them. If he missed having a comfortable cushion beneath his backside, Dorian didn’t comment.

“Dorian,” Kaelas said a minute or two later, “Can I ask you something? And I promise to keep my temper this time.”

“Ask away,” the mage said with a slight smile of trepidation.

Kaelas eyed Dorian’s slave-woven silks. “Tell me… Are you even aware of where your clothes come from? The conditions under which they’re made? I’m not just talking about elves being used as bags of blood for your rituals now, Dorian: I’m talking about everyday things.”

Dorian shifted, but gracefully let Kaelas finish.

“Back home, the food on your table, heck, even the table itself, was only possible because of slaves. They work the fields and the forest from dawn til dusk and all they get is leftover kitchen scraps, and they’re supposed to feel _grateful_ for that? They work til they’re too old to lift their tools – often old before their time mind you – and then what happens when they can’t give any more? Do they get to retire in luxury and comfort like fat old magisters? No. They’re taken out behind the shed and _killed_ , Dorian. Like dogs who have outlived their use.” He shuddered, trying to keep a hold of his emotions this time and knowing he was already teetering on that ragged edge again. “Tell me you know this?”

Dorian, for once, had nothing at all to say to that. He just sat there for a long time, staring at the grass between his feet. Eventually, however he took a deep breath and nodded. “Kaelas, I want to change my homeland. You know that much already. I want to change things from the top down. But it will take time.” He fiddled with that ridiculous moustache of his that still somehow seemed to suit him perfectly, and went on. “There will be people who’s entire wealth and fortune and comfort is built on the blood and backs of slaves. My own family’s included, Kaelas… They will fight me every step of the way. I will face assassination at best and ridicule, banishment and public humiliation at the worst... But I _will_ change things,” he finished fiercely.

Kaelas sighed. “That you want to make a difference is enough for now,” he said, feeling drained but somehow calmer. “Stay and help the Inquisition. Stay and fight Corypheus with me. And then... then see what the world asks of you next.” He tucked a strand of his fiery hair behind his long ear and smiled shyly. “I’m sorry. I... It really wasn’t fair of me to speak to you that way before.”

Dorian watched the water splashing into the basin for a moment and said, “Something you said back there in the library… it made me think that you’re right: I really _don’t_ know very much about you at all. I… I made a lot of assumptions about you. For instance, I thought… I thought you were a city elf, but you’re not, are you?”

Kaelas’ head jerked up. “A _city_ elf? Why would you –? Oh, of course,” he chuckled sadly and brought his wet fingertips from the bowl to his cheeks. “No _vallaslin_.”

“You’re Dalish, aren’t you?” he said.

Kaelas nodded. “Yes.”

Dorian was silent for a long time after that. “You must think me an awful ass…” he said eventually.

Kaelas raised an eyebrow and looked askance at him. “Sometimes,” he said eventually. “But if anyone was an ass today it was me. It was as though I went _looking_ for trouble.”

“What’s so special about today then?” Dorian asked hesitantly.

Kaelas sighed. The words were there, but he was reluctant to speak in case his voice broke. “It… It’s the anniversary of my brother’s death,” he said in a very small voice.

Dorian’s breath caught. “I’m so sorry,” he said, and Kaelas heard real empathy in his tone. “Truly.”

“Thanks,” he mumbled. “I… I think I was looking for something to make me angry, to make me hurt again. I… I should have known better than to bring up Tevinter’s slave trade with you today.” Kaelas glanced at Dorian and saw that the light of his insatiable curiosity blazing in his silver eyes, but he restrained himself from asking the obvious, and for that Kaelas was grateful. “I suppose I owe you an explanation of sorts after my behaviour,” he said reluctantly.

“You owe me nothing, Kaelas,” Dorian said. It seemed strange to hear such serious sentiment coming from the man who, until that point, had deflected any attempt at serious conversation with self-effacing humour and awful puns. “I’ll take anything you want to give me, of course, because I’m a greedy little Tevinter shit, but I wouldn’t want you to feel under obligation…”

“Thanks,” he said, fixing him with a stare. He puffed his cheeks out and then said, “It’s a long old story anyway, but part of it would explain why you thought me a city elf…”

“Why you have no tattoos?” Dorian clarified.

Kaelas laughed then and leaned back on his arm, propping his long torso up and letting his head fall back, tipping his empty face towards the sky so that his flame-red hair hung loose for a moment in the still courtyard air. That he wore no _vallaslin_ was a source of great shame to him. He may have been Inquisitor and the Herald of Andraste, but to his own people he was no more than a child who had not been deemed worthy of receiving the blood writing. “Yeah,” he said eventually. “Maybe I’ll tell you one day,” he said. “I’m not quite ready to tell you now.”

“Fair enough,” Dorian said. “I realise it can’t be easy for you,” Dorian went on after another few heartbeats, plucking at a strand of grass and twiddling it between his fingers, “To have to look at and deal with an Altus from Tevinter, and a mage to boot, every day.”

Kaelas cast him a mischievous glance, fighting through the clouds of his grief for a moment of sunlight. “I don’t know, you’ve said it yourself any number of times: you’re very easy on the eyes, Dorian...”

The Tevinter mage’s cheeks actually coloured at that, and he smiled the sweetest little smile before the walls all came crashing back down.

“Ahh,” Kaelas sighed. “And now you’ve gone. I’ve got Public Dorian again. Look,” he said, stretching his shoulders out and grunting softly. “I’ll see you later. I’m leaving for the Storm Coast again in a few days and I need to pack and prepare and talk things over with the others, but I’d love it if you came too. It’d be a chance for us to get to know each other a bit better, away from all… this…” he said, waving a hand vaguely around him.

“Let me check my spell books first for rites that will give me gills and the skin of a frog to withstand all the rain...” Dorian laughed, and Kaelas knew then that he was coming with him.

“If you turn yourself into a frog, you’ll have to ask Varric or Bull to kiss you...” Kaelas said as he levered himself to his feet with another grunt, knuckling the small of his back. “ _I’m_ certainly not going to do it...”

“Of _course_ you won’t try to _kiss_ me to turn me back into a frog!” Dorian scoffed. “What a ludicrous idea! As though you’re some ignorant hedge-witch brought up on fairytales! _You’ll_ perform the counter-spell and then _I’ll_ kiss _you_!”

“What makes you think I’ll let you kiss me, even then?” Kaelas smiled over his shoulder as he turned and walked away, slipping through the archway as silent as a shadow.

If his heart was hammering like a wild and terrified horse at his uncharacteristic boldness, he prayed Dorian hadn’t seen any sign of it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Is there anything you'd like to see more of in particular? I know where this is going, but still, if you'd like certain things included or explored more, don't forget you can let me know in the comments!! If not, a kudos is always appreciated anyway...

**Author's Note:**

> If you want to come chat to me on Tumblr, you can currently find me on my fantasy and monsters/non-humans blog, @monstersandmaw, or less frequently on @expectogladiolus. 
> 
> I hope you're keen for more of these two, and if you liked it so far, please leave a kudos or a comment - it really means the world to writers when you do that.


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